Negotiations
by Lizard Pie
Summary: Quebec wanted the businesses he'd lost to Ontario back, and he was going to get them in the most effective way he knew how. Province!PWP


Our meetings were always held in French because Québec insisted they be. It was far from that he wasn't fluent in English, I just think he enjoyed the ability to mock my accent and conduct business simultaneously. I'd remind him that the French didn't even bother to go behind his back to make fun of his dialect. He'd tell me to fuck off because I didn't know anything. Usually, that was wrong, and I would return the gesture with gusto. We wouldn't talk about it any further.

The ritual insults were as close to a normal greeting as we'd come in years, and as close to a greeting as he often got with his fellow provinces. Not that any of them knew him well enough to realize that this was supposed to be friendly around the ever-present hostility.

But I knew Québec better than anything. For better or for worse, I could tell his intentions around his unending pompous attitude. As the amazing lead province, I'm supposed to, of course, but it went beyond even obligation. Before he even knew he was coming, I did.

Thanks to unbridled awesomeness, I also knew exactly what he was going to talk about before it had a chance to leave his mouth. I'd tell him I knew if I felt like listening to a long string of slanged French, and then watching him storm off. I'm sure he realized how much I could use this and chose not to. Québec knew me better than anything, as well.

I wasn't going to pick a fight that night, and I'd known that for a long time. It was monumental that he'd come to my house to begin with, and there were just too many problems already. Québec was sick and tired from the stress of his quasi-revolution, and more than ready to drown his exhaustion in beer.

Regulation changes, which were more than obviously desperate backpedaling, had been implemented. He was there that night to do what he wouldn't admit was both whoring and begging. He was in my home for what he'd call demanding his companies (the ones he personally exiled) back.

Le Québec libre. I wondered what his activists would say, did they see him like this, and the answer was they'd probably try to rip his stray hair off again. That being the case, I couldn't tell if his bosses were even aware he'd crossed the border.

He was surrounded with a cloud of his own smoke as usual when he made it clear he wasn't interested in conversation. His kisses tasted like poutine covered in beer covered in a thick layer of tobacco as they always did. They weren't what they used to be, the passion behind them was almost dead, but fuck if he didn't remember where to go and how to do it.

There's a lot of things guys like us can't ever forget, but at the same time there are tons of things we never remember even if we have to. It's the problem with having other people control your memory. I guess it made me happy to see that he still knew enough about what we'd shared to recreate it centuries later. But then, of course, I remembered why he was there and stopped giving a shit beyond that I was gonna get a free kickass blowjob out of it, regardless of what he'd get.

I knotted my fingers in his hair like I always had, so I guess that was something. At least, maybe he saw I remembered something, too, but probably not. Québec never really cared for that sort of thing because it messed up the style he spent hours on every day in the bathroom, and he'd no doubt take this as me being an ass rather than remotely sentimental. I didn't care, though, which probably made him right.

He wasn't one for swallowing, but what he wanted was firmly within Toronto. The inevitable twitching that had always made him switch from mouth to hands instead had him latch on with more suction than before. As if he could suck the businesses and citizens and money he'd lost out of me, and swallow them back to the center of his territory.

Montréal, at least, seemed very eager for that. The way Québec's breath caught in his throat told me, more so watching his hips twitch. Maybe just because of how much we'd been together, it was hard to keep my hands on the armrests. I'd never been very good at not touching him back, and that's probably what he was banking on.

He just shy of humped my leg to get my attention, I swear to God.

And, maybe if he'd been there on strictly a social call, I would have given in. But damned if I didn't know that he wasn't thinking of me for more than what he could get out of me, and damned if I didn't know he was being turned on at the potential wealth he'd get more than anything. Québec had more self-control than to get that hard over just blowing somebody, even if he was lucky enough to have his mouth around my amazing vital regions.

I came in his mouth, which he'd wanted, and he swallowed it down as lewdly as he could have while suppressing a gag. I didn't want to look down at him. One glance at his straining pants, the needy look in his eyes, and I knew I wouldn't be able to stop.

What I should have done was throw him out into the night. He was a son of a bitch for having brought sex into it, and he deserved to leave unsatisfied. But I remembered, and he remembered, and when he panted out 'Ontario'... that was it.

I kissed him, and he tasted like poutine covered in beer covered in tobacco covered in me. I counted the seconds until the refractory period was over, and I teased the hell out of him until then. He knew I would, even if he bitched about it. But he understood well enough that there was no way I was going to let him get off without me getting a chance at the tightened-up ass of his.

He was barely coherent when he demanded to know how much longer it was going to take me, and there was nothing that could have stopped me from fucking him into the ground right then.

He ended up limping off the next morning with a lot more than I'd planned on giving up, but a fuck of a lot less than he'd come there for. He knew not to ask a second time because he'd never get anything else out of me, and the chances were high that his bosses would have been furious if he'd let them know. His rebel parties probably would have rioted within him and torn him up from the inside if they'd had any idea.

But Québec, libre or otherwise, had always been a stubborn son of a bitch. And, when he went to the next meeting in Ottawa and he was still uncomfortable sitting, he took the time to look over at me. He said to hell with his warring parties, to hell with every bit of state pride he had within him, and asked if I was free that night.

Fucker was making me remember why I liked him in the first place, and that was going to cause problems.


End file.
